


(You Made the World) Colorful

by won_whoa



Category: A.C.E (Beat Interactive Band)
Genre: Fluff(?), M/M, Soulmate AU, Waiter!Yoochan, slight angst(?)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 21:50:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11655417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/won_whoa/pseuds/won_whoa
Summary: Yoochan just really wants to know what color his soulmate’s eyes are. Problem with that is that (1) he can only see gray tones and (2) his soulmate is scarce.





	(You Made the World) Colorful

**Author's Note:**

> (1) I've never waited tables in my life, so I just imagine it's stressful.
> 
> (2) Junhee is mentioned and blind, so I'm sorry.
> 
> (3) The original idea of seeing a grayscale world until you see your soulmate isn't actually mine own. I think it's from a Meanie Fic on AFF, so I hope that's not a problem. If it is, I'll remove this. 
> 
> (4) The ending was a little (read: really) rushed, so I'm sorry! 
> 
> (5) I fucking love Yoochan and Donghun so much.

Yoochan really hates his soulmate. It’s stupid, he knows, but he can’t help it some days. It’s those days that he’s inconsolable to most. Even to the point where everyone knows to steer clear of the soulmate topic around him—sometimes Seyoon won’t even show up to brunch because Yoochan’s so sensitive about it. After all, he is in his third year of college already, and the world is still splayed out in front of him in black and white. It’s lackluster any day, but on his off-days, it’s downright infuriating that he’s already in his twenties and doesn’t even know was color an apple is. (All he knows is that it’s called red more often than not and Byeongkwan best explains it as the color of passion, of fire and anger, of love. Obviously that doesn’t help him to picture it, but he gives credit to Byeongkwan for trying.)

It’s those days that Yoochan is unbelievably soft and worried to the core of his being that he’ll end up like the guy on floor three: unsighted because he never got to see, and will ever be able to see his soulmate. He gets sick to his stomach at the thought of never ever knowing the curve of his soulmate’s lips or how nicely their fingers would slot together. He decides then that never knowing is so much worse than losing what you once had.

It’s those days that Yoochan roams the expanse of his apartment just thinking about what it’ll be like once he gets to see his soulmate. He wonders what they’ll look like. He asks himself the big questions those days. Will he be short? Will she be tall? Will he like soccer? Will she hate cucumbers? This stuff is important. Hopefully he’ll live to know.

In fact, today’s one of Yoochan’s infamous off-days. It’s past noon, so Yoochan’s in, as Byeongkwan likes to say, stage two of his off-days—stage one, grief-stricken and utterly enraged; stage two is where Yoochan has his heart out on his sleeve; and stage three is desperation and depression—in which he seeks out Byeongkwan to help him find the answers he long awaits.

Today, Byeongkwan’s been called into work, though, so he’s left with Seyoon as comfort. It’s odd. During their usual three-way lunch break, Seyoon’s all ears as Yoochan and Byeongkwan chat on about everything under the sun, but when it’s just the two of them, Seyoon opens up more. He’s actually able to say more than four words at a time; Yoochan almost can’t believe it. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Yoo,” that’s six words that so far help none. “Your soulmate was crafted, made just for you,” eight words. “Your fate is already written,” Seyoon’s already so much a bigger help than Byeongkwan. Byeongkwan always just tells him to stop moping, “so stop fretting so much.” God, of course they’re soulmates.

“Wow,” Yoochan mutters sarcastically. To emphasize his annoyance, he even pouts and crosses his arms like a child throwing a tantrum, “Thanks, Kwan!” Seyoon only snickers and sips at his tea. He must be used to Byeongkwan acting in a similar manner; goddamn it.

“He is my soulmate for a reason,” curse Seyoon and his constant right-ness. Curse both of them for always (or for Byeongkwan, sometimes) being right. With a glance at his watch, Seyoon rises minutes later with words at the tip of his tongue, “they’ll make themselves apparent in no time, Chan. The less you think about it, the faster they’ll come.” Yoochan knows he’s right (again), but still manages to grouch even after Seyoon’s left for better things.

It’s a game. A bad, terrible, horrendous game of Yoochan second guessing the universe because he’s so impatient and just wants to see his soulmate in the flesh. It’s disheartening to end each day in grayscale. He just wants to know what color his promised’s hair is and how their eyes shine in the light. Is that too much to ask?

The universe tends to say yes because why have Yoochan live in happiness? That’s too easy apparently, and, he supposes, the universe thinks it’s funny to watch him end each day with a heart that is a little more broken than the day before. Maybe the universe has made him into one of the poor saps like Junhee on floor three. Blind. Helplessly blind and broken and wondering what could have been.

Man, stage three sucks.

—

Yoochan’s in the middle of his lunch break when Byeongkwan shows us to give him company. They’re seated at one of the booths at the far end of the restaurant Yoochan works at in silence, munching away at the food Yoochan gets an employee discount on. A majority of the time is spent with him apathetically poking at the meal before him while Byeongkwan eats wholeheartedly like he’s got this one last meal before he dies.

“Seyoon told me you had another episode,” after the better half of thirty minutes, the elder of the two speaks up, plate practically clear. It’s almost a week later and it’s Yoochan’s longest time feeling doleful. He still has a heavy heart, but the smile on his face hides it from strangers and people who don’t know him well enough. Howbeit, Byeongkwan can see through it with ease, forcing Yoochan to drop his smiles and shrink into himself. “Still having one, apparently.” He almost sounds just as sad as Yoochan looks; per contra, he doesn’t sound nearly as sad has how Yoochan actually feels.

The younger of the two simply nods because, yeah, Byeongkwan’s right. Though he doesn’t appreciate the name, Byeongkwan is right. He’s having his doubts yet again, but they’re not infrequent—they’re actually becoming more frequent the older he gets because he’s got one less day in his life to spend with his soulmate. Byeongkwan would never understand; Seyoon would never understand; Wonwoo, Seulgi, Sooyoung, Hojung, none of his friends would understand.

He doesn’t know how to explain how much he yearns to see his soulmate in words no matter how hard he tries, so he doesn’t. Byeongkwan’s already heard his little spiel one thousand times too many; he won’t make him listen to the same greasy gunk all over again for the nth time. (‘If you burden your friends, you won’t have any,’ his father used to say.)

“Told you to suck it up?” He simply continues to munch on whatever bread sticks remain in the basket.

“Yep. Just like you do,” Chan feigns a gag, “you two are perfect for each other.” Again, his mood dives down at the mention but knows better to make Byeongkwan feel bad for having found his soulmate in grade seven. In turn, he pokes his fork down at his food and makes a wholesome attempt to actually eat. (When he does, his mood automatically brightens because come on, food makes everyone happy.) Feeling better, Yoochan engages in small talk with his best friend until he has to go back to work, “you finish your stats project-thing?”

From there, Byeongkwan goes on and on about how behind he is on the project that’s due in a week’s time. He’s maybe done an eighth of the actual assignment in the month and a half he was given to complete it. Yoochan ultimately determines that his friend his royally fucked unless he doesn’t sleep for the next five days. Yoochan also ultimately laughs at Byeongkwan’s suffering and is prepared to deal with an even more stressed out Byeongkwan when he sees his GPA plummet.

In no time, Yoochan is called back by a fellow employee to get back to it because the dinner rush is beginning to build up. He bids Kwan an, “adieu, monsieur! Do not miss me too much,” that only makes the elder laugh out loud in the quiet of the restaurant. He gets a few stares, but he looks like he couldn’t care less about it as he makes his way out.

 

 

As much as Yoochan loves making money, though it is only a tad more than the minimum wage, he absolutely hates working during the dinner rush. For some peculiar reason, the restaurant in which he works is a popular place for upper-middle class families, businessmen, and romantics to acquaint themselves for a high-class looking meal and setting without breaking the bank too severely. It’s nice during breakfast and even lunch times because it’s nowhere near as busy and the waiters (a.k.a. himself) or waitresses get to lounge about a majority of the time.

Never during the dinner rush can they do that, though, because they’ll usually have a full house and then some. It’s a contest of trying not to run into high-chairs, other waiters nor patrons; not spilling salads, soups nor drinks; and trying to seat and clear tables in record time. It’s harder said than done and by the time Yoochan makes it back to his apartment at closing time, he wants nothing more than to pop pills for his headache and to go to sleep (showers haphazardly pushed off until the morning after when the smell of steak and stews all but seep from his pores).

Today is no better because he’s already got six tables alone that he is to wait because one of the other waitresses who was meant to come called in sick and her replacement in getting dialed in now. He’s got two big, flat trays of varying beverages in either hand as he attempts to serve a family of eight with haste. God bless his abnormally good memory because it certainly helps him perfectly place orders before their recipient which, in turn, saves him a few budding seconds each time.

It’s hard nonetheless because it seems as though his skill is faltering with each run; he’s misplaced three orders in the span of forty minutes. One of which went to the completely wrong table, costing him nearly ten minutes to figure out who actually ordered the meal in his hand. Frustration seeming to be the cause. It only grows worse with all the body heat from customers and the heat sliding through the kitchen doors.

He’s breaking more than just a sweat because of it but dabs the excess from his forehead every few minutes in a lame attempt to hide the fatigue from the clientele. The more at ease he looks, the more tips he gets, so he makes an honest effort to ignore the pain in his heels and smile through the headache that originates behind his eyes. It’s hard, and some of the habitués seem to understand that and cut him some slack when he stubbles every now and then. Others just glare because they presume themselves to be royalty, but Yoochan doesn’t let it get to him. He deals with at least a dozen of these kind of people a day. Byeongkwan will still hear about some of the really bad ones later nonetheless.

(Especially about the lady who literally threw a fit because her (expired) coupon wouldn’t be accepted. The heated, screechy voice that emanated from her throat was still making Yoochan irritable, but he digresses.)

It’s all just going too fast, and Yoochan can see that Hyoeun and Youbin are suffering just as must as he is as they rush from table to table with the same black tray he carries. If only all the ruckus, all the motion, all the running could die down for even a second so that he could finally get in a breath. It’s hot; it’s loud and his headache is getting worse by the second.  
He’s on edge by the time it reaches eleven.

As he makes way from table three to the kitchen, he’s got a bin full of dishes that need washing. He’s all but sprinting to get there, so when someone practically jumps out from a corner, Yoochan doesn’t have the time to stop himself from ramming his body into them. It’s hard and Yoochan’s pretty sure his head meets the dude’s nose with the goal of breaking it.

It’s accidental, and Yoochan just really hopes he won’t get fired today. He apologizes endlessly and more so once he sees that blood is dripping onto the floor seeming from the stranger’s downcast head. “Oh my God! You’re bleeding,” the stranger just laughs and shakes his hand out the motion that he’s fine. Yoochan begs to differ though and helps the other make his way to the restroom (which ironically is just beside them). Dish bin forgotten.

Yoochan’s not good with injuries and tends to blow even the smallest of paper cuts out of proportion, so it’s not surprising that he practically demands the stranger to perch himself on the sink as he collects paper towels to stop the bleeding.

He thrusts a bundle at the stranger and moves to dampen a few once he notices that the blood has rolled down the stranger’s chin and onto his white shirt. “I’ll get you a new shirt,” Yoochan promises because it’s his fault, “Sorry, again.”

Yoochan wipes the red from the stranger’s skin and tosses the towels. The stranger’s stiff as he does so, but lets him nonetheless as he holds his own wad to his nose. “It’s okay.” Wow, his voice is as smooth as the richest honey, is Yoochan’s initial thought, but doesn’t dwell on the thought for long. “It looks like you’re having a busy day.”

“Tell me about it.” Yoochan’s got a firm grip on the stranger’s shirt as he aggressively rubs a small red spot into a bigger pink one. (Of course, Yoochan still can’t tell what’s red and what’s pink, but he can see a once black-tone fade into a lighter gray one.) Yeah, he’s going to get this guy a new shirt. “Oh…” It’s when he looks up from the white cotton up to the stranger’s nose does he notice the same black tone (presumably more blood) pooling in the curve of the stranger’s lip. “You’re lip is bleeding, too. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. They get caught in my braces all the time.” Yoochan’s had braces, too, so he can confirm that statement as being true, but still makes the decision to blob away the majority of the blood with more paper towels.

Again, the thought of how pretty the stranger sounds resonates in the back of Yoochan’s mind and now that he’s looking straight on at full, pretty lips, Yoochan wonders what all of the stranger looks like. He hasn’t really even tried to look the other in the eyes yet, so he wants to know if his eyes are just as pretty as his mouth is.

He spares himself a glance forward and notices that the stranger is staring at him, eyes wide. He hasn’t got the tissues to his nose anymore and has managed to stop bleeding.

Suddenly, Yoochan can see the browns of the stranger’s irises and hair. The pink of his cheeks and the swell of red of the others lips all in one go. It’s mesmerizing and it takes more than he’d ever like to admit to realize that just before him is his soulmate. The soulmate he’s been aching to see for years.

It’s all so much. He’s beautiful and his skin is rich. Yoochan determines already that he loves it and wants to pepper his lips against all of it. The dark tones of brown and hazel draw Yoochan further and further into his soulmate’s eyes and before he has any control of his body, he’s got his arms around the other’s neck and is crying.   
“My…” soulmate boy wraps his arms around Yoochan slowly. Like he’s taking all this information in because it’s overwhelming. It’s stiff and the start, but Yoochan can feel him relax his shoulder’s even through the ugly sobs. “My name is Donghun.”

Again, Yoochan determines already that he loves the name and is eager to say it for the rest of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> [cross-posted on AFF](http://www.asianfanfics.com/story/view/1274303/you-made-the-world-colorful-ace)


End file.
